Aurelion woke to the sound of voices.
Distant. Muffled. He was lying on something hard—metal, maybe. The sky was gray above him. The wind was cold.
He tried to move. Pain lanced through his ribs. He groaned.
"He's awake," someone said. "Get the medics."
He turned his head. A soldier was kneeling beside him, her face young, her eyes tired. Behind her, more soldiers moved through the valley, checking the bodies, securing the area.
"Reinforcements," she said. "We came as soon as we got the signal."
"The convoy," Aurelion said. His voice was hoarse. "The soldiers—"
"They're gone." Her voice was flat. "We found you at the base of the cliff. You're lucky to be alive."
He didn't feel lucky.
The medics arrived. They checked his injuries, applied bandages, gave him something for the pain. He let them work, his mind still reeling, still processing.
The soldiers are dead, he thought. Holt is dead.
Vorthar killed them.
And I couldn't stop him.
The soldiers around him moved with practiced efficiency. They had done this before—found survivors, treated wounds, processed the dead. The war had taught them to be quick, clinical, detached.
Aurelion stared at the sky as they worked. The clouds were low and gray, pressing down on the valley like a lid.
"What's your name?" he asked the young soldier.
She looked at him, surprised he was speaking. "Private Chen."
"Thank you, Private Chen. For finding me."
She nodded, her expression softening slightly. "We found the convoy first. Then we found you. You were lucky."
"Everyone keeps saying that."
"Because it's true."
The transport was a military vehicle, armored and reinforced. Aurelion sat in the back, his body aching, his mind heavy.
Private Chen sat across from him, her eyes tired, her posture alert. She had been assigned to escort him to the city. She didn't ask questions. She just watched him, her expression neutral.
"Where are we going?" Aurelion asked.
"New New York. Command wants to debrief you."
He nodded and looked out the window.
The journey took three hours.
They passed through contested territory, past burned-out settlements, past fields that had been scorched by mana fire. The war was everywhere, a constant presence, a weight that never lifted.
Aurelion stared out the window, watching it pass.
Vorthar, he thought. He's out there. Watching. Waiting.
He's going to come back.
And I need to be ready.
He touched his chest, feeling the shards beneath his skin. They pulsed in response, warm and steady. They were healing him, slowly but surely.
What are you? he thought. What are you doing to me?
They didn't answer.
New New York appeared on the horizon.
It was massive—walls of concrete and steel, turrets lining the parapets, soldiers patrolling the gates. Skyscrapers rose behind the walls, their windows dark, their surfaces scarred by past battles. It reminded him of Central City, the fortress he had left behind across the Eurospan. But there were differences—the architecture was older, the walls more weathered, the scars of war more visible.
The transport rolled through the gates. Soldiers moved with purpose. Hunters strode through the streets. The machinery of war was everywhere.
Aurelion was taken to a command center—a large building at the city's center, its walls reinforced, its windows dark.
Private Chen led him inside.
The debriefing room was cold, functional, bare. A table, chairs, a single window. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead.
Aurelion sat in one of the chairs, his body still aching, his mind still heavy.
A woman entered—tall, sharp-eyed, her uniform crisp. She carried a tablet and an expression of controlled impatience.
"Commander Reyes," she said. "I've been briefed on your situation."
Aurelion nodded.
"Tell me what happened."
He told her. The ruins. The shards. Vorthar's arrival. The warning. The attack. The fall.
She listened, her expression unreadable.
"Vorthar," she said. "We've heard rumors. A demon general operating in the region. You're saying he was there?"
"He was there. He killed the convoy. He threw me off a cliff."
She studied him. "And you survived."
"Barely."
"Vorthar is one of the Demon King's most dangerous generals. He doesn't leave survivors."
Aurelion met her eyes. "He wanted me to live. He wanted me to remember."
"Remember what?"
"The convoy. The soldiers. The way I couldn't save them."
Reyes was silent for a moment. She set down her tablet and looked at him with something that might have been assessment. "You're not a soldier. You're not even a registered hunter. You're a civilian who walked into a war zone and got lucky."
"I know."
"Then why are you here?"
He met her eyes. "Because I have nowhere else to go."
The debriefing continued.
Reyes asked questions about the ruins and the shards. Aurelion answered carefully, withholding anything that would make him sound unstable.
"The Demon King is looking for something in those ruins," he said. "I don't know what. But the shards were there. They were scattered. Someone—or something—has been collecting them."
"Collecting them for what?"
"I don't know. But Vorthar's warning seemed real. He wasn't just threatening me. He was trying to send a message."
"What message?"
Aurelion was silent for a moment. "That humanity is going to lose. That the Demon King is going to win. And that there's nothing anyone can do to stop it."
Reyes studied him for a long moment. "Do you believe that?"
"I don't know what I believe anymore."
She nodded slowly. "We'll assign you quarters. You're not cleared for combat. But you're not a threat. Not yet."
"Not yet?"
She met his eyes. "Vorthar wanted you to live. That means you're useful to him. And if you're useful to him, you're useful to us."
Aurelion was led to a small room in the barracks.
It was sparse—a bed, a desk, a window. But it was private. It was safe.
He sat on the bed, his body aching, his mind heavy.
I'm alive, he thought. I survived.
But I couldn't save them.
I couldn't save anyone.
The shards inside him pulsed, warm and steady.
I need to get stronger, he thought. I need to find Valley's Watch.
I need to find the truth.
He closed his eyes.
The next morning, he woke to the sound of the city stirring.
He sat up slowly, his body still sore, his mind clearer. The shards had done their work—his ribs were healed, his bruises faded. He was still tired, but he was functional.
He stood and walked to the window.
New New York stretched before him—a city of survivors, a fortress of steel and will. Soldiers drilled in the streets. Hunters prepared for missions. The machinery of war continued.
The world doesn't stop, he thought. It keeps going.
And I need to keep going too.
He was about to turn away when something caught his eye. In the distance, beyond the city's walls, he could see structures—large, rectangular, built of reinforced steel. Hangars.
They were massive, easily the size of several city blocks. Soldiers moved around them like ants. Vehicles rolled in and out. The hangars were active, operational, busy.